


my soul just wants (to be closer to yours)

by dyadinbloom



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Based on the song "Fortune Teller" by The Rolling Stones (1966), Dramione/Reylo Crossover, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Journalist Hermione, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychic Malfoy, Roommates, Songfic, Tags Contain Spoilers, There was only one bed!, because of said magical snowstorm, but really there were zero beds, magical snowstorms, photographer Ben, psychic Rey, serial killer snoke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyadinbloom/pseuds/dyadinbloom
Summary: Ben Solo is the lead feature photographer for the London Times. Psychic Rey Niima gains notoriety after a few of her more famous clients rave about how amazing she is. Ben is sent to do a feature on Rey, and after reading his palm and telling his fortune, neither one can wait to see if her predictions come true...Hermione Granger has fought her way to the top of the London Times' reporting desk, and enjoys her work and its basis in facts and logic. Unfortunately for her, her latest assignment places her squarely in the realm of guesswork and divination as she is sent to interview Rey Niima and her mysterious partner, one Draco Malfoy, who works in the shadows and deals in magic of the Muggle kind.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 19
Kudos: 26
Collections: A Picture is worth 1000 Words - PL Summer Exchange





	1. the future is never set in stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emotionalsupporthufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalsupporthufflepuff/gifts).



> Kelli, thank you for creating such a beautiful and inspiring moodboard to help my brain dream up this fic! I hope you love it. Thanks for being such an emotionally supportive Hufflepuff. ;)

“Where the hell is my fisheye?” Ben growled to himself, rummaging around the boot of his car, tossing cylindrical containers this way and that. “Long lens...zoom lens...aha!” Triumphant, he shoved the fisheye into the large black back at his side, along with a standard lens, a few polarizing filters, and a small tripod. It was amazing how much junk one could fit into a camera bag when the camera itself was slung around the photographer’s neck.

Ben checked his wristwatch, wincing when he noticed that as usual, he was too early for his assigned interview. He considered waiting around for his partner outside, but decided there was no harm in getting started with light readings early.

He closed the boot with a slam and strode up the cobblestone street to his destination. Ben was one of the few London commoners he knew with a car, but he’d never been able to drop that particular Americanism.

The address he’d been given appeared to be a private residence, and he looked at the piece of paper in his hand again before spying a small plaque to the right of the door.

_Unlike this sign, the future is not set in stone  
_ _Please wait for admittance_

Ben smiled. He removed the lens cap from his camera and snapped a few shots of the clever sign at an angle before stepping back to include the glossy, black front door in the photo. As he bent his knees and dipped to the ground, the door opened, and he captured an image he thought must be sheer perfection.

A beautiful woman, luscious curves encased in dark fabric, chestnut hair falling to her shoulders, highlighting sharp cheekbones and toned arms. The black door in shadows behind her, the golden plaque and light stone--he couldn’t wait to develop this shot.

“Hello,” she greeted, her voice a lilting British tone he still wasn’t quite accustomed to, and he rose from a crouch to his full height. He towered over her, despite the fact that she stood in the doorway in heels, adding several inches to her stature.

“Hello,” he replied, slinging his camera to his side and extending a hand. “I’m Ben Solo? Here for the London Times feature?”

“Of course,” she smiled, taking his hand firmly in her small one. “Please come in.”

She stood back and allowed him to pass, closing the large door behind them, and Ben found himself in a large foyer that smelled of incense and mystery.

He appreciated it on the same dual level as he’d enjoyed the sign outside; the whimsy, the intention of it all; as well as the effect that it had on the person seeing it.

“Are you the reporter?” the woman inquired politely.

Ben shook his head. “No, just the photographer. My colleague will be here in a few minutes. I like to have a look around to get an idea of some shots before she starts asking questions.” He gave her a small smile, and her eyes--they were hazel, he saw--sparkled up at him.

“Well, please feel free to come in,” she said, gesturing toward an arched doorway. Ben had to stoop to pass through, where he saw a smooth black table surrounded by low armchairs. The slim windows allowed just enough light in to cast a cool glow over the room, which was warmed by candles that sat upon small shelves on the wall and beside the chairs.

“This is where the magic happens, huh?” he quipped, and Rey smiled in return, showing a hint of straight white teeth as she circled him to sit in one of the chairs.

“It’s less magic, and more science,” she murmured, folding her hands on one knee as she crossed her legs. They were long and slim, Ben noticed, and he wanted to photograph them--with and without her shoes. 

He shook his head to clear it of his thoughts. “I’ll leave that explanation to my partner,” he said, pulling out a light meter and beginning to hum to himself as he took readings and considered lenses, murmuring a bit as he placed a tripod on one of the shelves, then moved it to the floor. Through it all, he could feel the gaze of the woman’s hazel eyes upon him, and he felt a blush creep up his neck at the thought of her scrutiny.

* * *

Ben Solo had always considered himself a curious man. He loved to ponder questions, seek answers, consider symbolism and significance. Unfortunately, none of those skills paid well, so to put off his mother’s incessant questioning about whether he’d be following in her political footsteps, he’d enlisted in the military and avoided the future for as long as he could.

But after two long years on the other side of the world, he was finally discharged. He had no idea what he wanted to do when he returned home, but he figured he had some time to make a decision once he was stateside.

When he boarded the plane to go home, he found himself seated beside a pale man who was nearly as tall as he was. The ginger Brit was traveling sans luggage, much like Ben, and had only a small rectangular case to accompany the much larger bags beneath his eyes.

Being crammed into a space smaller than your average casket tended to encourage bonding, so before long, Ben had made the acquaintance of one Armitage Hux, photographer and wartime journalist extraordinaire. Hux had been following Ben’s unit around the region for months, as it turns out, and he showed Ben some of the images on the tiny screen of his gigantic camera. 

As he cradled the heavy Nikon in his large hands, something about it felt _right_ to Ben. Ever a planner, he’d always chased what he wanted, but war had taught him that sometimes instincts were the best guide.

So when Hux mentioned he and his betrothed were looking for a third roommate back in London, and when Ben mentioned that he had no future plans whatsoever, the pieces had fallen into place almost too easily.

Ben didn’t take the second leg of his flight home; he stayed in London and learned the art of photography from Hux and the craft of storytelling from his fiancee, Rose.

In the dark, he fought nightmares, but spent his days in darkrooms watching beauty develop from nothing.

He walked the cobblestone streets, rode the Underground, drove on the left side of the road. And through it all, he saw the world through new eyes.

He learned to look at the world not as a place filled with danger, but as a myriad of possible outcomes to be explored. Through a lens, he saw images that could be captured and cropped and colored to tell a story, answer a question, evoke a reaction. This insatiable curiosity combined with his natural drivenness and was enhanced by the discipline he’d learned in the military.

Within a year, he found himself, the lead feature photographer for the London Times, capturing frantic shots of his best friend and his brand new wife over a cake nearly as tall as Ben. He found himself smiling and laughing as he snapped photos, capturing image after image of Hux looking happy and alive, bags under his eyes long gone, nightmares banished to the occasional bad day rather than every night.

Ben was happy for his friend. But life was changing for him, yet again. His friends were married now, and he felt the unspoken pressure to leave them in privacy and find another flat. 

This time, rather than leaving his old life behind in a blur of smoke and twisted metal, he faced change with optimism and openness. He couldn’t wait to see what the future held.

It was fitting that he was visiting a fortune teller for his latest assignment.

* * *

Ben was crouched on the floor of the large room, framing some sample shots, when he heard heavy footsteps echo against the wood. He looked up to see a tall, slim man approach, whose light hair contrasted sharply with his scowling features and silvery grey eyes. 

“Ben Solo?” he asked, and Ben rose.

“That’s me,” Ben confirmed. “I’m just waiting for my partner to show up, and then we can get started.” _Was this Ray, the fortune teller?_ Ben wondered. _Psychic_ , he corrected himself. This man looked more like a gypsy than the woman, with his piercing silver gaze, black suit, and a few large rings on his fingers. 

“Excellent,” said the blonde man, and he somehow made the word seem distasteful. “If you’ll follow me to the foyer, we can allow ample time for preparation.”

The man looked back at the woman, who smiled softly at him and nodded, almost imperceptibly. The man scowled back at her, then glowered at Ben, who widened his eyes innocently and followed him into the front room.

“I understand you and your partner are interested in a few readings,” the man began, striding toward a high desk and standing behind it. “Although you are here for the Times, we hope you are prepared to provide recompense for the analyses.”

Ben blinked as the man stared him down. “Of...of course,” he stammered. “We have a budget for the paper that allows us to participate in our assignments like a typical consumer would.” Ben wasn’t intimidated by very many people, but he felt uneasy around this man. For whatever reason, this bore further consideration.

“Excellent,” the grey-eyed man said, once more making the word sound like an insult. “Which readings are you interested in today?”

“Well,” Ben began, clearing his throat. “I believe we need to sample...everything. Tarot, palm reading, crystal balls, tea leaves. The works.”

The man narrowed his gaze at Ben with contempt as he heard the purely American phrase. “Will you and your partner each want these services, or will you be splitting them?”

“I believe we’ll split them,” Ben said easily, really hoping his colleague would show up soon so she could take over the talking. That was her typical role; she poked and prodded with words; he lingered in the background and documented the story she discovered. 

“Wonderful. That will be £200.”

Ben choked. Two hundred pounds for a _palm reading_??

He was rescued by the mysterious woman, who appeared in the doorway. “Come in, Ben,” she said, gesturing him forward with a smile.

Ben looked uneasily between the two other occupants of the room, who seemed to be in some sort of proctector-protectee role. “It’s fine, darling,” she said, and Ben’s heart shriveled a bit, because it was possible that this beautiful photo subject was not available for his...detailed perusal.

Nevertheless, he followed her into the adjacent room, where she pulled a curtain down over the doorway, blocking them from the view of the blonde man.

“Ben,” she began, taking a seat and gesturing for him to do the same. “Do you have any questions before we begin?”

“Well, yes,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Who are you?”

She blinked at him. “I’m Rey.” At his confused look, she grinned. “With an E.”

_This_ was Rey Niima? The psychic with visions of the future who’d helped catch the infamous serial killer, Snoke? The mystic whose clients were rumored to include the Queen herself?

She didn’t look at all like he’d pictured. He’d imagined a gypsy, someone with rings and fluttery clothes and deep smokey eyes and a raspy voice. Not this...professional, clear-eyed woman with the tailored skirtsuit and peekabo cutouts around her collarbones.

“Uh, Rey. I’m sorry, I just--”

“Pictured something else?” She smiled. “Many of my clients do. But as I said earlier; this work is more science than magic, so it requires some study; some structure.”

Ben’s curiosity was piqued. He couldn’t wait to pick her brain, photograph every element of her practice, tease out a story from the images he could capture.

He explained as much to her. “I just...lurk around and take pictures. I might have questions about the logistics, but my colleague will be the one to ask you about your case history, and your more notorious clients. She’ll do the writeup.”

Rey pursed her lips and Ben wanted to kiss them, nearly instantly.

“Is it okay if I photograph your readings? Including mine, remotely?”

“Of course,” she said. Ben stood and adjusted his tripod so the viewfinder captured the table where Rey sat: expectant, serene. He angled the lens so he’d be able to capture both of them, adjusting for the dim lighting. He set the shutter to remote and took a seat, pressing the button a few times to take some test shots. After checking the images on his phone, he nodded at Rey.

“Shall we begin?” she asked. He wished there was a way he could capture her voice in an image.

Ben nodded again, and Rey took a crystal ball down off of one of the shelves to her left. She placed it in a pedestal, then sat it in the center of the round table. She looked up at Ben as the smoke inside swirled and changed color, reds and blues swirling into pinks and lavenders, before finally settling in on a hue of deep purple.

“Hmm,” she said. “Major changes are arriving in your life. As doors open, people will leave; people will come.” She stared intently at the ball as the colors shifted again, going grey, and her brow furrowed. “You have dealt with change before. It aged you, those elements of your past.” The ball glowed a deep yellow. “But this change will be the start of a new day; a sunrise rather than dusk.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dark. He stared back, spellbound. Through a professional lens, he could see why people paid for this feeling: the idea that he could have some control over his future, that it was going to be a positive one, was thrilling. 

But as a man, he was even more drawn to the woman giving him this information.

“May I have your hand?”

Ben gulped and extended his right hand. He felt dizzy, his head spinning. Rey grasped his fingers in her own, and he could feel the arc of a current between them.

“You feel warm,” Rey commented. She turned his hand so it was palm up, and she ran her fingers lightly over his skin, thumb skimming across the lines that led to his fingers.

Her hands were cool on his; her fingers smooth, nails scraping over his skin just gently enough to make goosebumps rise on his arms, visible past where his tee shirt sleeve ended.

Rey traced two parallel lines across his palm, then ran her index finger up one that bisected the others. She smiled softly.

“You’re in love,” she proclaimed.

Ben laughed. “Definitely not,” he said, his hand still captured in hers. _I’m not...passionate with the girls I know_ , he thought.

“When the next one lies,” she intoned softly, “you’ll be looking into her eyes.”

He blinked at her in disbelief. _What kind of a foundation for a relationship was a lie?_

Ben laughed nervously. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Rey beamed at him.

Ben flushed, but was saved by the bell, quite literally. The chime signaled someone at the front door, and Rey, after discerning that her associate wasn’t around, rose to answer it.

_Finally_ , Ben thought.

“Hello,” he heard Rey greet his partner. He heard their murmured introductions, and then both women made their way into the room, where he’d risen from his seat to pick up his camera. He snapped a few shots of them together, noting their height difference and similarities in skin tone. He’d need to play up their contrasts to get a striking photo.

The women sat down, and Ben pecked his friend on the cheek in greeting.

“Took you long enough, partner,” he teased. 

She tossed her long curls over one shoulder. “Give it a rest, Benjamin. If you weren’t always so early to everything, we’d have arrived at the same time.”

Rey smiled serenely in the face of their banter. “Ben has done palmistry and the crystal. Next would be tarot, if you’d like to try a reading, and then we can conduct the interview over tea?”

Before she could get an answer, Rey was interrupted by the approach of heavy footsteps once more.

“Rey, I’m sorry; I was upstairs--” the grey-eyed man was saying, rounding the corner into the room. 

His partner froze in her chair. She blinked owlishly as the man came closer, and she looked the least comfortable Ben had ever seen her. 

“ _Hermione_?” he whispered hoarsely. 

Ben’s head whipped around to him, then back to his friend, who was still utterly frozen in her chair. She exhaled shakily.

“Malfoy,” Hermione murmured. 

Rey stood and clapped her hands. “Well, Ben, let me show you the rest of the space.” She turned to the man. “Draco, I was just about to read Ms. Granger’s tarot. You’ll take care of it?”

Without waiting for an assent--which may not have been forthcoming, given that both Hermione and Draco seemed completely petrified--she grabbed Ben’s sleeve and pulled him out of the room behind her, leaving the air thick with tension behind them.


	2. tarot is tactile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are tense while Malfoy reads Hermione's tarot cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about tarot. I did my best to research!!! 
> 
> Kelli, I scrambled to get another chapter up before the exchange reveal. I hope you enjoy this taste of Dramione!

Hermione sat, frozen, in the low armchair as she looked into the face of her archnemesis from school. _Draco Malfoy_ , here, of all places. Telling fortunes.

For his part, Malfoy stood, similarly shocked, in the doorway to the small, dim room. The candles were flickering, her heart was racing, his silvery eyes were glinting. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Granger herself, here in my little shop.”

Hermione tsked. “Please. As though it’s your shop. Rey Niima is who people come to see here.”

Malfoy scowled and came forward to drape his long form into the chair opposite her. “Who do you think taught her everything she knows?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’ll wait to interview her to learn about that. Which, speaking of, I should go do now. I don’t need anything from the likes of _you,_ ” she spat, though it lacked her usual venom.

Malfoy leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the round table between them. He steepled his fingers, showing off the dull silver of the rings he wore. His black suit was immaculately tailored, and his hair had darkened somewhat, which, when combined with the five o’clock shadow around his jaw, made him look _slightly_ less pale and creepy than he had at school.

His grey gaze seemed almost...warmer than it once had.

Hermione blinked at the absurdity of her thoughts and shook her head.

“Well, this was a delightful reunion, but I’ll just go and find Ben so we can--”

“Oh, but I have to read your tarot, Miss Granger,” Malfoy drawled. “It’s for a story. So you’ll do it, surely? Because you’re such a rule follower?”

Hermione _growled_ at him. She didn’t know why he’d always brought out such a violent side of her; she was in control, content, driven at all other times. In the years since they’d graduated, she hadn’t felt this rising anger in a long, long time.

But now, with the perspective a few years of adulthood and independence had afforded her, she recognized something important: she _liked_ feeling this way. This recklessness, this outrage that burned inside her: it made her feel alive.

Hermione shook her head, curls bouncing, and put the feeling away to examine later. The damnedest thing was that Malfoy was right, of course: she was a professional, and she’d have her damn tarot read and future examined because it was her job.

Even if divination was total horseshit.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Do your worst.”

Malfoy grinned, the toothy smile of a predator, and Hermione noticed how full and smooth his lips looked as they moved. As if he could hear her thoughts, he leaned back in the chair, smoothing a thumb across his lower lip.

Hermione made her inhale as inaudible as possible, but she couldn’t help her gasp. Somehow, in the years since she’d met him at age eleven, Malfoy had grown up. He’d gotten...well, he was…

Not unpleasant to look at.

She couldn’t deny it. Draco was _hot_. The fawning of girls at school made a bit more sense to her now; he was wealthy, the scion of a powerful family, _and_ attractive.

No wonder he was so damn cocky all the time.

After he’d examined her for a moment, Malfoy unbuttoned his suit jacket, reaching into an inner pocket to produce a deck of large black cards. He placed it in the center of the table, his long fingers opening the package and producing glossy black and silver-backed cards. 

He fanned them out expertly, and Hermione kept her gaze on his fingers, watching, absorbing, learning--everything she did best. He shuffled the cards, sliding them around on the table, the smooth movements of his arms almost sensual. She slid her eyes up to his, and the heavy-lidded grey gaze she was met with nearly took her breath away.

And then he opened his stupid mouth, and the illusion was shattered.

“So, Granger. What do you want to learn about today? How to add more time to the day? Best tips for being top in your field? Whether you’ll finally find love?”

“Shut up and tell me about tarot,” Hermione said calmly. “I’m not here for introspection. This is simply research.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Tarot isn’t a science. It’s about intuition, about trusting your gut and your instincts.” As he spoke, he shuffled the cards back into a semblance of order, and began to cut and stack the deck rapidly. “In order to create a narrative from the cards you receive, you need to have an idea of what you’re looking for.”

Hermione sighed. “I’ve done some preliminary research. I know there are some basic spreads we can begin with. Let’s do one of those.”

Malfoy smirked. “We’ll start with a simple three card draw. Choose.” He spread the cards out onto the table in a smooth fan. She leaned forward, seeing that the glossy black cards were emblazoned with a silvery border that was a thin snake, long body curved into a rectangle, whose mouth snapped at its tail. In the center of each card was a silver eye.

“Where’d you get these?” she snarked. “Borgin and Burkes?”

“Amazon,” Malfoy drawled. “Now choose.”

“You can pick any three,” Hermione replied airily. “It doesn’t matter.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You have to choose them.”

Hermione huffed. “ _Fine_.” She sat forward, stretching out an arm, and pointed to the three cards on one end of the deck. “Those.”

Suddenly, she found her hand captured in Malfoy’s large, cool palm. “You have to _touch_ them, Granger.” His fingertips caressed her skin. Her golden-brown eyes snapped up to his, and their usual silver seemed darker, smokier. “Tarot is tactile. Sensual. Like so much of magic that you can’t learn in a book.”

Hermione growled at his words; of course he was still an insulting arsehole. She yanked her hand away from his, pulling three cards toward herself.

Malfoy swept the remainder of the deck to the side in a neat stack, then arranged the three cards in front of her on the table. He began to lecture, and instead of tuning out as she assumed she would, she found herself enraptured by his explanation.

“Tarot is less a tool for me to tell you about your life, and more a method for you to engage in productive self-examination. As I said, it’s about introspection, instinct. So you need to set your intention and center yourself before we have a look at your cards. Close your eyes.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, but closed them, albeit suspiciously.

“Breathe, Granger,” he commanded. “Relax. Think about your life. About who you are, what you want; where you’ve been, where you’re going.”

Hermione inhaled, listening to the smooth sound of his deep voice. There was no erasing the polish of it; the rich sheen that came from a lifetime of wealth and privilege.

Her brow furrowed. There was also no hiding the tension in it: tension borne from that same lifetime of pressure, of external influence, of being yanked around to others’ wills--

“Stop thinking about whatever it is that isn’t you,” Malfoy snapped. “Focus.”

She scowled, but kept her eyes closed. _My own life. Myself._

The problem was...when did she ever think of herself? Sure, she was driven, and she enjoyed success. But that seemed less like a goal and more like a habit.

Who was she?

What did she want?

Where had she been, and where might she be going?

* * *

Hermione had always known she was different. As a child, her parents had called her precocious, but at school she’d been marked for ostracization by her intelligence, her bushy hair, her large teeth. So she’d leaned into it; she embraced the swotty persona her classmates had thrust upon her. It had allowed her to pursue her studies, her curiosity, unheeded.

And then she’d met her first true friends, Ron and Harry, through happenstance. Rather than being repulsed by her bookish nature, they’d embraced it, and for the first time in her young life, she didn’t feel like being an intelligent, competitive woman made her destined for spinsterhood and solitude.

She spent her teen years alongside her friends, using her mind to help the trio’s misadventures succeed. Their time at school had been magical, enjoyable--with the notable exception of people like Draco Malfoy.

There had been others, sure; but he was always the one at the forefront of her mind. He insulted her at every turn, glowered down his nose at her, smirked her way every time he had a girl on his arm. And he was rude to her friends, even sometimes downright violent.

Malfoy had relented a bit after she’d lost it on him during their fourth form, slapping him in the face and unleashing an outraged torrent of insults that truly put him in his place, and then he’d gone all broody and withdrawn in their final years at school.

Hermione knew that life hadn’t been easy for Draco during the war; his family had been on the wrong side of history, and he’d been trapped in the middle. Eventually, he’d chosen the side of the light, but the war had cost everyone she knew something.

For Draco, it was his status.

For Hermione, it was her family.

She’d never felt close to them; they were so different. Both dentists, her parents were content to live a simple life in the country. She’d always needed _more_...more information, more challenge, more adventure. She loved her parents, though; and when they had died in their attempt to flee to Australia before the war encroached any closer, her heart had broken. 

The guilt had nearly shattered her. Not just that she hadn’t been _with_ them, but that they hadn’t been closer beforehand. She’d felt at home, useful, in London, where she was still at university, balancing her studies with her consultancy for the government. Her natural bent toward curiosity, combined with her talent for research, made her a natural candidate for intelligence work.

But when she’d gotten the news that the plane her parents had been aboard was shot down, she’d been stricken with grief. She was even more alone now; Harry and Ron had gone into the more action-oriented roles war had offered, and without a family, or colleagues that weren’t transitory, she’d nearly sunken into despair.

But she’d survived, which was all anyone could do in times of war. Too many others hadn’t been so lucky. 

When Hermione had returned to university, she felt hollow. But her studies, aided by a few beloved professors, had lit a fire within her, and its glow had filled the emptiness inside. She realized she was fiercely dedicated to improving the world: to reminding everyone of how happy they once were, and could be again.

Journalism and international affairs were her passions, and she was a born researcher, sniffing out scoops wherever they hid. She interned with the London Times, and found joy telling stories large and small. Her byline could be found on front page articles about the war’s effects, as well as on human interest pieces hidden within the feature section of the paper’s depths.

She’d felt an instant kinship with a new photographer, Ben Solo, when he’d joined the paper a year ago. Two lost souls, trying to find an anchor, some light in a dark world. Initially, she’d hoped for a spark with him, but there had never been any romantic chemistry: just the solid foundations of a friendship built on hard work, late nights at the office, and lots of strong tea.

So this morning, when she’d seen Ben with Rey, and practically had to dodge the attraction flying between them, she’d been happy for her friend. But she couldn’t deny that there was another, smaller part of her that wondered if she’d ever feel that spark with somebody. A spark very similar to the itchy feeling Malfoy provoked in her; that restlessness that spurred her to be impulsive and reckless and all the things she normally _wasn’t._

And she didn’t like that feeling at all.

* * *

Hermione tried to tamp these thoughts down as she sat opposite Malfoy, whose palms rested flat on the table, framing the black tarot cards. He looked into her eyes as he spoke, waving a hand over the cards from her left to her right.

“The cards in this layout represent your past, present, and future. Alternately, they may offer the context, focus, or outcome of the question you may be asking.” Quickly, he flipped the first card over. “The six of cups,” he murmured, and Hermione leaned forward to examine the illustration. It was beautiful; six crystal goblets floated over a long table lit with floating candles.

“What does that signify?” she said, the curiosity she felt evident in her voice.

Malfoy smiled a little at this. “In this position, nostalgia for your past. I try not to let any knowledge of my clients color my readings, but this seems in character for you.”

Hermione nodded grimly. There were many wonderful things in her past; there was heartbreak, too.

Sensing her desire to move on, Malfoy turned over the middle card. “The Chariot, reversed,” he explained. A beautiful golden chariot faced Malfoy, and she studied its ornate wheels and riderless state. She flicked her gaze up to him, eager for an explanation. His brow was furrowed, as if in discontent.

“The Chariot represents direction; purpose. In this case, because it is reversed, it would seem that you are feeling a bit aimless at this point in your life. You lack conviction about your identity at present.”

Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes. He was right; she missed the past, missed the obvious ways she was useful or the clear roles she had to fulfill. Student, friend, intelligence officer. Now, after the war, she was...drifting, she realized.

She kept her eyes downcast, staring at the card, looking at it beside the six of cups. Hermione was beginning to see what Malfoy meant about the cards telling a story; with the first card representing her past, and the middle one her present, it was easy to see a narrative emerge. She held her breath and nodded at Malfoy to indicate she was ready to see the third card.

He turned it over and his hand stilled. She looked quickly up at him, but his face was carefully blank. A dark-haired woman and a man with fair features were entwined; her hair swirled around them and his black-clad arms wrapped around her tightly. Hermione couldn’t tell if the pair were clutching each other out of passion or possession.

“The Lovers,” Draco murmured. “Signifying relationships, falling in love, or making a choice about a partner.” He looked at her curiously. “Last I knew, you were with Weasley.”

Hermione snorted, the mood broken. “Not any longer,” she said quickly. She sat back in her chair, crossing her legs. “So, Malfoy. Tell me my fortune.”

He smiled. “It’s not for me to tell. I’ve shown you your cards, explained their meanings. Now it’s up to _you_ to determine the story they tell.” He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “If it were me, I’d say this narrative is pretty clear. Because you’re trapped by nostalgia for your past, you’re stuck in the present. Once you move forward, love will be your reward.”

Hermione scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.” She opened her mouth to continue her protests, when she heard movement behind her.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, too,” Ben said, appearing in the doorway, Rey behind him. “Rey told me I was in love.”

Hermione laughed in disbelief. “We’re about the two most antisocial people I know. Either you’re both,” she gestured to Draco and Rey, “super crazy, or you’re going to speak something super crazy into existence.”

Ben grinned at Hermione. “Well, I can’t wait to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait to find out where this goes, either! :)


	3. order from chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Rey and her origins.

Rey had been waiting for him.

She’d woken at sunrise with a feeling in the pit of her stomach, a feeling not unlike those that preceded her clearest visions. She’d been waiting all morning, then, for the feeling to shift into a pinprick behind her eyes that showed her the future.

So when she’d opened the door to Ben Solo, crouched on her front stoop with a camera hiding his beautiful face, Rey knew.

She knew that this was the man she had always been destined to fall in love with.

When he stood up and smiled at her, it was no wonder she’d been too dazed to introduce herself, or speak coherently, or do anything other than murmur a brief hello before he’d come into her home.

But then an hour had gone by, and so much had come to pass. She’d told Ben his fortune, or his doom, depending on one’s perspective; Draco had been reunited with Hermione; and now, she stood close to Ben in the foyer of her townhouse.

Rey laughed breathlessly. “I’ve been waiting for Hermione to arrive; I’m sorry you were caught in the middle and we had to rush off like this.”

Ben smiled down at her. “That’s okay. I almost fell over when I heard the name Malfoy. Hermione has talked about him before.”

Rey unlocked her front door and preceded Ben up the stairs. “I know you’re looking for a place to live, and as it happens, I’m hoping to rent out a room in this flat.”

Ben emerged onto the main living floor and looked briefly confused, but then his face cleared. “How did you--ah, right. Fortune teller.”

Rey smiled. “Please have a look around.”

She stood back and watched as Ben wandered her space, trying to see it as his eyes did. The spidery plants in the windows; the muted jewel tones of her decor in contrast with the warm browns of her furniture and hardwood floors.

Ben looked over the tidy kitchen, then gestured to the stairs. “May I?”

“Yes,” she said, and followed him up. “The room I’m letting is on the right.” Ben inspected the guest room, spacious and well-lit, with tall windows and a king-sized bed. She’d ordered it with his tall frame in mind months ago, wondering if she’d get it in time or if she’d have it waiting for years.

“This looks great,” Ben commented, leaning over her in the hallway to look at the room. He moved past her, and as he did, Rey shivered. Suddenly lightheaded, she gripped the doorframe as a vision flashed before her eyes like an eclipse: Ben, beneath her, in his bed, his powerful body at her mercy as she rode him.

She gasped as her vision cleared, and Ben was crouched in front of her, worried.

“Are you okay?”

Rey nodded, taking deep breaths before she could speak. “I’m fine,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. That happens from time to time. Glimpses of the future.” She smoothed her hair back behind one ear and tried to regain her composure.

“So,” she began, taking a few steps down the hall, “you’d have this bathroom to yourself. The master has one connected.” She checked to make sure he was following her as she paced to the third bedroom and opened the door. 

“This room has always seemed too small to let, and it doesn’t have a window. I call it the den and we use it for storage, usually. But…” she trailed off, looking at Ben. “It could be a great darkroom.”

She watched in pleasure as his cautiously hopeful face lit up. “It seems perfect. Name your terms.”

She gave him a figure, and he nodded. “That works for me. And this location is great; close to the paper. Just one last question.”

Rey looked up at him as they walked back into the hallway. 

Ben gestured to the last door in the hallway, which was still closed. “Who’s my roommate?”

Rey laughed. “Me, of course.”

* * *

Rey learned quickly, as a child, not to talk about the things she saw that others didn’t. Where other children saw imaginary friends, Rey saw the dead. Where other kids drew pictures of family outings, Rey sketched murders.

The reactions of her parents, teachers, and friends quickly taught her to bury her abilities, and for a time, she successfully ignored most of her visions.

Until the one where she saw the death of her parents.

A swift death; a car accident, but their untimely deaths nonetheless. At aged seven, Rey did everything she could to prevent it. She begged her parents to listen; begged them to take the train; begged them to stay with her.

But nothing was enough, and for her troubles, Rey was given a weekly appointment with a psychiatrist and a revolving door of foster families.

Years of loneliness and neglect drew Rey in on herself, until she found herself placed with the Parkinson family. Pansy, her foster sister, was a snake of the first order, and Rey knew on sight not to trust her. But it was Pansy’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, Draco, who changed her life forever.

At fourteen, Rey felt aged beyond her years, having seen so much of the cruelty the human race had to offer. Draco, similarly, was a dark soul, with a family he was crushed by, of a similar social standing to the Parkinsons’. Rey had ignored her visions for years, but when she saw Draco’s untimely end in her mind, something in the vision compelled her to tell him.

One night, after Draco had returned Pansy home after what had certainly been a dull social outing, Rey cornered him in the foyer. She’d begged him not to accept a tattoo of a skull eating a snake, and Draco had drawn back from her, seemingly horrified at the specificity of her request.

He’d disappeared out the front door and she heard nothing of his fate for years; Pansy remained mum, no matter how Rey begged her for an update on Draco, and she was moved to yet another foster home not long after.

Another seven years passed and Rey was 21, when she felt the familiar brush against her consciousness that signaled a coming vision. As she’d matured, she’d honed the ability to welcome or block what her last foster mother, Maz, had referred to as her Sight. 

Maz had taught her to channel the visions; to focus in on them, to zoom into details that might help her interpret their significance. She’d also taught her how to blur the lens when Rey wasn’t in a place to help others. Maz’s golden rule had been to put Rey first, no matter what. _You can’t help anyone if you haven’t helped yourself_ , she’d repeated.

The vision she saw this time was clear and prescient: a worn townhouse, a round table gleaming in candlelight, tarot cards scattered on its surface. And seated, at the table, was an older, sturdier Draco, who smiled at her in friendship and welcome.

Rey opened her eyes from the vision, hailed a cab, and was delivered to the very address in which she now stood; it was as simple, and as intricate, as that.

* * *

Ben blinked down at her now, his dark hair shading his face in the dim light of her upstairs hallway, and his lips formed a silent O.

“Is that a problem?” Rey asked, arching a brow.

Ben shook his head and stammered, “no, no, not at all. I just....didn’t expect you to live where you worked. Or work where you lived. Or both.” He laughed sheepishly.

Rey smiled at him softly. Maker, he was adorable. No wonder her heart was his.

“I’m a quiet roommate,” she promised. “I travel often, and my hours are very predictable.”

“To you, anyway,” Ben joked. She rewarded him with a laugh and was given his smile in return.

“Shall we go see what our colleagues are up to?”

“We’d better,” Ben said darkly. “Hermione may have killed him by now.”

Rey laughed as she preceded Ben down the stairs. “Draco has mentioned Hermione, but I didn’t know the blood between them was quite this...potent.”

Ben huffed. “Hermione has good reason to loathe him, if half of what she’s told me is true.” 

Rey hummed as they reached the ground floor. “Well, I can’t wait to see how the reunion is going.” She approached the reading room slowly, watching as Draco laid a third card onto a spread for Hermione. The woman’s long hair shone in the candlelight, and Rey watched Draco’s hooded eyes flicker over Hermione again and again.

She smiled softly. She was delighted her friend would find love, too.

When Draco turned the last card, Rey knew what it would be; she left him to his reading and led Ben toward the small tearoom on the main floor, where she busied herself brewing tea while he fiddled with his camera before their interview.

Ben wandered toward the reading room and Rey followed in time to hear Hermione’s incredulous laughter, Ben agreeing that the idea of both of them finding love was ludicrous. Rey smiled serenely.

“Please,” she invited, “come have tea. We’ll talk more.”

* * *

When they were seated and the tea was poured, Rey sat back in her chair, cradling her cup and saucer, ready to observe the dynamics of their small group. The tension between Draco and Hermione was palpable; Ben seemed protective, loyal to Hermione; and the two men were trying their hardest not to glare daggers at the other.

Rey grinned in amusement, feeling like the most privileged of flies on the wall as she watched the conversation unfold.

“So, Rey,” Hermione began, sitting forward in her chair and placing her tea cup on the small table between their chairs. “We’re here, as you know, because The Times is very interested in your affinity for interpreting your visions in such a way as to prevent negative outcomes. Would you say that’s an accurate depiction of what it is that you do?”

Rey smiled at Draco, who had raised an eyebrow, but otherwise remained silent.

“Yes, Hermione, that’s a very astute way of putting it,” Rey agreed. “I’ve always been able to see things, since I was a child. It wasn’t until I was older that I learned to interpret them.”

“And how did you learn that process, if you don’t mind sharing? It isn’t really part of our story, but I am curious,” Hermione admitted, smiling at Rey.

“I was lucky enough to meet a very kind woman who took me under her wing, listened to me, and helped me grow. It really just took one person who understood what I was experiencing to help me see this...ability as something more like a gift, rather than a curse.” Rey paused and smiled to herself, thinking of Maz, then lifted her gaze to Draco’s silver one.

“Then I met _another_ person who understood, and he helped me see the possibilities. How I might help others; might save them from the pain I sometimes saw them suffering.” She spread her hands. “And here we are.”

Hermione shifted her gaze from Rey to Draco, who kept his expression neutral, his posture relaxed. He sat back in the wide chair, one ankle crossed over a knee, his fingers steepled to a point under his chin.

“What led you to approach the police with some of your visions, initially?”

“My friend,” Rey replied without hesitation. “I grew up with a…” Rey paused, considering her words, “healthy distrust of the police. But he helped me see that creating order from chaos was the best approach, and I found someone at the Yard who I felt comfortable talking with.”

Hermione didn’t have to check her notes. “Lieutenant Holdo, was it?”

Rey nodded. “Holdo has placed her faith in me so many times. I’m lucky to have found her.”

Ben cleared his throat, and Rey watched Hermione turn to him smoothly, their partnership well defined, the camaraderie evident. “I know the Lieutenant,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “She’s Poe’s superior,” Ben said to Hermione. “And I know she runs a tight ship. She must trust you a great deal to bring you onto her team.”

Rey’s face remained impassive. “It’s not me she had to trust. It was the accuracy of my visions. With my friend’s help, I was able to interpret them...to make sense of the disjointed images I often see in brief flashes, or in dreams.” Draco gave her the briefest of nods, but stayed silent, as was characteristic for him.

“Your friend?”

Rey nodded at Malfoy. “Yes, my friend Draco.” 

Hermione turned swiftly to face the blonde man. “Malfoy, do tell.” She kept her voice professional, though Rey could tell she was itching to add a barb or a note of sharpness to her question.

“Why, all the things we learned at school, dear Granger,” Draco purred, leaning forward smoothly to brace his elbows on his knees. “All those subjects you disliked: divination, astrology; the more intuitive elements of our trade.”

Ben had narrowed his eyes. “What school was this?”

“Kind of an obscure boarding school,” Hermione blurted, and Rey grinned to herself at the half-truth. “But thank you for the additional detail, Malfoy,” she said crisply. Rey privately thought it quite amusing that she wouldn’t be able to add this particular bit of background to her story for The London Times; perhaps she could tweak her story for the paper’s sister publication, The Daily Prophet.

Hermione guided her through the more grim details of her involvement with the paper’s real interest in her story: the capture of the infamous serial killer, Snoke. Rey felt Ben’s eyes heavy upon her as she talked with Hermione about the grisly details.

Snoke’s victims had been found dead with no external injuries whatsoever; internally, though, their deaths told a different story. Each victim’s throat had been crushed from within, or they’d been tortured to unimaginable lengths internally. Rey had begun having visions of these murders months before she first caught sight of something that looked familiar in the papers. 

She’d waited anxiously for similar stories to appear; but when they did, she didn’t know how to help. Who would believe a strange woman appearing at the Yard claiming to have visions of the killings?

But Draco had connected her with Holdo, Holdo had listened, and the three of them worked as a team to focus on details that helped them find Snoke.

Rey’s notoriety had skyrocketed when her name had leaked to the media as a consultant for Scotland Yard; that was when Draco formally joined her, serving alternately as her publicist, bodyguard, or financial manager.

Before all of that, though, he was her dearest friend, and Rey smiled fondly at him now as Hermione concluded the interview. She didn’t miss the glance the pretty reporter flicked between the two of them at the expression, and her grin broadened. Oh, this one was perfect for Draco, she thought.

Rey cleared her throat and sat forward. “With that, I believe our leaves are ready.” She picked up her teacup and demonstrated as she spoke. “Please swirl your leaves three times, clockwise, then once counterclockwise, and place your cup back on the saucer upside down.” Rey sat back. “Then, Draco can do our readings,” she finished, beaming around at everyone.

Ben obliged quickly, the delicate china looking tiny in his huge hands, and Rey’s heart swelled at his sweetness. Hermione and Draco were slower to comply; Hermione participating with a certain wariness borne of her proximity to Draco; Draco waiting a moment and then quickly swirling his own cup before plunking it down on the china with a _clink_.

“Oh, yes, then,” Draco said, leaning forward and smiling wolfishly, “shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Draco's POV is next. :)


	4. curse me into oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see the inner workings of Draco's mind, and he and Rey open a bottle of gin to cope with the chaos their visitors bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco was SO FUN to write. His snark and sass and general sexiness are just....perfection. Enjoy!

Draco had to fight to keep himself still as Rey was questioned. It was his job to protect her--his client, his business partner, his friend--from any sort of undue attention, after all, and when the fact that it was _Granger_ asking the questions, with her hulking beast of a partner...well, it was no wonder Draco was feeling short-tempered.

But Granger was inquisitive yet gentle; bossy yet sensitive--as usual--when directing the interview. Rey caught his eye a few times, asking for his thoughts about her level of detail, and Draco smiled in grim amusement when Granger realized just how much Rey knew about their time at school.

 _Obscure boarding school, indeed_ , Draco thought, leaning back in his seat and hooking one ankle over his knee. Looking at Granger now, no one would ever guess that she’d once been called the ‘greatest witch of the age.’ She looked every inch the polished professional: sleek ponytail, curls spilling from the ends; tailored suit, lush curves encased in charcoal fabric; ankles crossed, long legs smooth and tempting in black heels.

Draco privately thought she looked even _more_ mouthwatering than she had at school, and was glad it was Rey who had the gift of knowing others’ thoughts and not Granger.

For her part, Rey seemed completely at ease with Hermione and her partner, Ben Solo. Draco detected a spark between his partner and Granger’s, but was too preoccupied with the intrusive flavor of this interview to worry about it overmuch.

When he’d heard that The Times was sending a team, he’d fretted at first that some strange reporter would tell Rey’s story inaccurately or crudely, and then of course Draco would have to curse that poor sod into oblivion.

Then, he’d been concerned that they’d send some nosy investigator, and that of course, he’d have to curse _that_ poor sod into oblivion.

But when it was Granger that he rounded the corner of the reading room and saw--well, Draco felt that _he_ was the one who’d been cursed into oblivion.

Seeing her again, so unexpectedly, was a knockout punch that had his vision spotting and his world narrowing down to the curves of her silhouette. She was beautiful, perfect, intelligent, _good_.

All the things she’d always been, and all the things he could never be.

He was interrupted in his musings by the _clink_ of Rey’s teacup, and he slid his professional mask back into place, leaning forward to take over the readings.

“Thank you, Rey,” he murmured, watching his friend lean back in her chair and sigh in relief. No one else would’ve caught the small gesture; Draco was attuned to Rey’s physical presence as seamlessly as he was her psychic one. After so many years of kinship and teamwork, it was unavoidable. So it was slightly distracting when he saw her eyes wander over Ben Solo’s large form, again and again, and Draco had to force himself to _focus now; chide Rey later._

“Ben, let’s begin with you,” Draco said, watching Rey’s eyes snap back to his with a guilty blink. He smirked and turned toward the tall man, whose black hair and heavy brow were balanced well by kind eyes and a patient mouth.

Concentrating, Draco could tell that Ben had seen pain and suffering--had meted out some of his own, in fact--but that he’d come through it all a good person. He smiled a bit in relief that the object of Rey’s desire was basically decent.

Glancing down at Ben’s cup, Draco let his gaze blur, the leaves swimming before his eyes. Gradually, patterns and shapes began to emerge before him.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Granger interrupted, and Draco scowled up at her, “but can you tell me about your process as you do Ben’s reading?”

“Similar to your tarot reading, Granger, we’re looking at the past, present, and future.” Draco gestured to the leaves near the rim of Ben’s cup. “These dregs near the rim represent the present; the sides are the recent past or near future; the bottom, the distant future.” Draco held the cup out for her perusal. “The acorn, here on the side: do you see it? This would indicate that Ben will have continued health. The heart, nearly in the center of the bottom, indicates a future lover.” Ben coughed a bit, blushing, and Rey grinned. “It looks like your leaves are revealing the same thing as your palm and the crystal foretold, Solo.”

Granger, damn her, interrupted again. “I don’t mean to be a skeptic, but I just see...globs of dirt.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course you do, Granger. You’re the most literal-minded person I’ve ever met. This work involves creativity, fluidity; the ability to leave room for interpretation.”

Ben leaned forward. “May I have a look?” he rumbled.

Draco held the cup out, indicating his assent.

Ben squinted, rubbing one hand along his jaw as he looked at his cup. “I see...some triangles? And maybe a bird...an owl?” He laughed at himself a bit. “It’s kind of like looking at the clouds. I might see one thing, and someone else might see another.”

Draco nodded. “Very good, Solo. I see triangles, too--which, by the way, represents unexpected good fortune.” At this, Ben’s eyes flicked to Rey, then back to Draco’s, and he watched a subtle blush bloom on the man’s cheekbones. 

“And the bird can indicate sickness, so do be careful--it would seem that the acorn I saw is fleeting, since the owl is a bit more distinct.”

Draco sat back, steepling his fingers once more, and let Ben absorb the information. He did so, and Draco could nearly see the wheels in his head turning. “It makes sense to me,” Ben admitted. “And it does line up with Rey’s reading.” He smiled a little. “This process is very interesting.”

Rey beamed over at him and Draco took the opportunity to glance at Granger. Her brow was furrowed, and he could see her skepticism, still evident upon her face.

“Your turn, dear Granger?” he asked, his tone mocking.

“Stop calling me that,” she said mildly. 

“Which part? Dear, or Granger?”

She looked at him. “Both.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her; it hadn’t taken much to rile her up at school. All his subtle barbs today weren’t provoking the reaction he was looking for.

If he was honest with himself, the reaction he was looking for wasn’t one that he wanted to happen in a crowd, but he’d set that aside for later. As Ben stood to photograph the scene, Draco leaned forward.

“Let’s see,” he said, plucking her cup from its saucer. “A messy one,” he remarked, looking at the crowd of leaves in the cup. “You always did like strong tea, though, so I’m not surprised.” Draco pursed his lips. Slowly, the clumps took on shapes.

“An elephant,” he murmured. “Palm trees, the sun.” Draco rubbed a thumb across his mouth, brow furrowed. Rey sat forward in interest.

“May I see?” she asked.

Draco nodded and Rey picked up the cup. She took one glance, widened her eyes at Draco, and handed it back. Her eyes twinkled, but she was quiet.

“A blurred anchor,” Draco said quietly. “A moon. My, my, Granger. It looks like you’re going to be quite busy, if this cup is any indication. Changes in your health, work, success, love, all seem to lead to...a spectacular failure.” He bit back a smile and handed her the cup with a flourish, delighting in how completely perturbed Hermione now looked. “Sorry about your luck.”

She snorted inelegantly. “Thanks, Malfoy,” she said dryly. Draco heard the click of a shutter as Ben captured his partner’s expression of disbelief; he hid a smile, which quickly morphed into a scowl when he heard another click, indicating that Solo had captured his own grin. 

Hermione finished writing hurriedly, slipped her notepad into her bag, and turned to his partner. “Rey, thank you so much for your time.” She glanced down at Solo, who rose to his not inconsiderable height, and extended a hand to Draco. He rose to shake it firmly, then held out an elbow to Rey, who threaded her arm through his.

They stood together, a team through it all, and Draco smirked as Hermione turned away without a word for him.

“Thank you for coming,” Rey said. “Please contact me if you have any other questions, Miss Granger. And Ben--I’ll see you soon, yes?” Solo nodded and grinned a bit, then opened the door and held it for his partner as they left with a lingering glance on the man’s part, and a curt nod and a smile from Granger.

Draco and Rey released a sigh in unison when the door shut behind them.

“I don’t know about you,” Rey said, “but I’m ready for a drink after that.”

Draco grinned at her. “I’ll pour.”

* * *

Draco would always remember the very first time he’d met Rey. He’d been intrigued, when he’d picked Pansy Parkinson up for a date one evening, to find that she’d gained a new foster sister. Unlike most girls, though, Rey was both polite and fearless in her interactions with him. There was no blushing or stammering; no kowtowing or sidelong whispers to friends concerning rumors of his involvement with the Dark Lord. There was just a person who treated him as an equal--just that, another person.

She’d shocked him, then, when she’d grabbed his arm one evening as he left the Parkinson house, her fingers tight on his wrist. Her eyes were hazy, her voice an octave or two lower than he usually heard it.

“ _Don’t,_ ” she’d intoned. “ _Whatever you do, refuse the Mark. A skull consumes a snake; it is not your life to take._ ”

And then she’d blinked at him, and her eyes had sharpened. Rey was back, and she was frantic: she’d begged him to listen to what she’d told him; that her visions were trustworthy, if terrifying.

Draco had fled, but her words and the terror-stricken expression in her eyes were seared into his mind. When the time came, months later, for him to accept or refuse the Mark, he hesitated. He’d been surrounded by others who, before him, had acquiesced; doing so was his legacy, his birthright.

But somehow, the courage to refuse had come from within.

With his mother’s support, Draco had broken free of the Dark Lord’s clutches; he’d been disowned by his father, of course, and had gone into hiding for a time. When the war ended, Draco was haunted by all that he’d seen, all that he’d done. Refusing the Mark had been the only choice he’d made that he still felt certain of.

Draco had drifted for years. Upon his father’s passing, Draco had come into his inheritance. Most of it, he refused or donated, but an obscure piece of property on the list of Lucius’ assets had called to him.

He’d gone to visit, the Muggle street calm and peaceful, the townhouse well-appointed and spacious. Draco had barely closed the door behind him when the bell rang.

He opened the door to a disheveled Rey, looking much the same as she had when he’d last seen her seven years before. Without a word, she’d stepped over the threshold and wrapped him in a hug.

Draco had cried in her arms--the first tears he’d shed in over a decade--that afternoon. Rey had cried too, and they’d spent hours talking.

It only took a few hours for them to become friends.

A few days later, they were business partners.

A few weeks later, Draco had introduced Rey to Lieutenant Holdo.

A few months later, she was famous, and Draco was but a shadow behind her name.

Just as he preferred it.

* * *

Now, with a bottle of gin uncapped between them, Draco lounged opposite Rey in the tearoom, her shoes discarded and feet slung over the edges of her armchair. Draco, for his part, had draped his long legs atop the center table and stared at the ceiling, swirling the clear liquid in a tumbler.

“Hermione Granger,” Rey said.

“Mmmhmm,” Draco agreed.

“Do you want to know what I saw?”

“Do _you_ want to know what you saw?” he parroted.

Rey laughed. “It’s not a bad thing.” She sipped her gin. “At least, I don’t think it is.”

Draco let out a long sigh and took a sip of his own drink. “Shall we look at our leaves?”

Rey sat up, her smile lazy, head lolling. “I still don’t think I’m ready, but yes, let’s.”

Draco clumsily grasped his cup and handed it, with the precision of someone not entirely sober, to Rey. “Gimme yours,” he demanded.

She complied, then stared blearily into his cup, giggling almost immediately. “I cannot tell if all your leaves are blurry or if all my vision is. Then again, I don't really need to see it; you know what it says.” She smirked up at him.

Draco scowled and blinked down at Rey’s leaves, snorting at the way her fortune was swimming before him. “I think yours are clear, but my vision certainly isn’t. I don't need it to know that you're about to climb Ben Solo like the redwood he is.” He looked up at her, then tossed the cup on the ground, watching it shatter with lazy amusement.

Rey just sighed.

“Darling, please stop doing that. The novelty wore off _years_ ago.”

Draco pulled his wand out of thin air and waved it with practiced ease. “ _Reparo_.” With a soft clink, the teacup drew back into its prior state, righting itself on the table. Draco slumped in his chair.

“I really didn’t expect Hermione,” he admitted softly.

“I know,” Rey commiserated. “I didn’t either. I’m sorry.”

He waved a hand. “Don’t be. How could you see around that tree of a man?”

Rey blushed and tried to keep the smile from her face. “Stop,” she protested feebly. “And his name is Ben. You should probably get used to that, since he’ll be living here.”

Draco sighed in resignation. “I was hoping that wouldn’t happen, if I’m being honest.”

Rey laughed her tinkling laugh. “You’re ever so proper. I personally can’t _wait_ to get him in my bed.”

Draco only scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’re aging me. You know that.”

Rey tossed a crumpled napkin his way. “Hey,” she said gently. “Talk to me about Hermione.”

He sighed, a sound of such longing and frustration that even he cringed at how pathetic it was. “She’s just so...so…”

“Witty. Stylish. Fierce. Gorgeous.” Rey supplied, ticking off the qualities on her fingertips.

Draco only nodded. “All that, and more.”

“Draco, darling, why don’t you tell her how you feel? How you’ve always felt?”

He rose, agitated, to pace the room. “You know why. We’ve talked about this; I’ve always been bad, and she’s always been good, and that means that I can _never_ be good enough for her. End of story.”

Rey stood and stretched languidly. “You know as well as I do that nothing is set in stone.” She touched her friend gently on the arm, stilling his movement. “People can change. You and I are proof of that. So..." she shrugged. "Go get your lady.” Rey stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss him gently on the cheek. “Goodnight, Draco,” she said quietly, and ambled off toward the stairs to her flat.

Alone, Draco collapsed into his chair and waved a hand at the empty fireplace, flames blazing to life to light the darkened room.

He sat and watched the fire for hours, thinking, plotting, considering, like any good Slytherin.

When he finally extinguished the flames and dragged himself to bed, his silvery eyes were less dull than they had been; in them flickered the light of a strong plan of attack and a healthy splash of his trademark cockiness.

He was _tired_ of this pitiful, broken version of himself. Starting now, Draco Malfoy, swaggering scion of the wizarding world, ruiner of reputations and commander of every social setting, was _back_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Smut is on the horizon, dear readers! :)


	5. this doesn't change anything, you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione goes to visit Ben and is met with a variety of surprises, including but not limited to, a magical snowstorm, a power outage, and her attractive archnemesis, Draco Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! (I hope you read that in the Obi-Wan voice.)
> 
> I've taken a depression-induced hiatus from fandom for a few months, and luckily, I had a fun WIP to come back to to help break me of my writer's block. Thank you to Kelli for the cool moodboard prompt for this work, and for your company in sprints!
> 
> PREVIOUSLY -- Photographer Ben Solo meets psychic Rey Niima and her enigmatic partner, Draco Malfoy. Everyone is surprised when his reporter friend, Hermione Granger, shows up to accompany him. Palms are read, tarot and tea leaves and crystal balls appear, and Ben answers Rey's ad for a roommate.

**_THREE MONTHS LATER_ **

* * *

Hermione wrapped her wool scarf more tightly around her face as she hurried down the street, her boots clattering on the cobblestones as she went. As the evening darkened, a rare London snow had begun to fall, and she was torn between enjoying its beauty and being frustrated by the slipperiness and cold.

She grumbled to herself as she finally stomped up the steps of Ben’s brownstone, ringing the bell and shivering beneath her heavy coat. She hoped fervently that it would be Rey or Ben who answered the door, but her hopes were dashed when the glossy black surface creaked open to reveal _him._

Draco smirked at her, seemingly unbothered by the cold and snow swirling in around him.

“Can I help you, Granger?” he drawled.

“I’m just here to see Ben,” she snapped.

“Well, he’s not back from the paper yet, I don’t believe, though I’m not his keeper.” Draco made no move to welcome her in, and Hermione made a sound of frustration in her throat.

“May I wait? He should be here soon.” She hated that she was forced to ask, that she had to interact with Malfoy at all, and that her life had led her back to this point, circling around to weekly interactions with him once more.

He moved back from the door without a word, shutting the heavy wood behind them once she had entered the foyer. Hermione could feel his presence behind her as she unwound her scarf, removed her gloves, and stomped the snow from her boots. Any time she was in a room with him, she felt suffocated, and being trapped in the tiny foyer set her nerves to sparking.

“I’m fine to wait here,” she huffed at him.

Malfoy only chuckled. “Oh, but it’s my job to receive guests.” He looked her up and down slowly. “Even if they aren’t paying customers.”

Hermione scoffed. “As if you’d have anyone knocking in this weather.”

Finally, Malfoy moved away from her and into the sitting area. “I suppose I should offer you some tea,” he tossed over his shoulder, waving his wand and producing a steaming pot of tea, cups, and a small tray of biscuits.

Hermione’s stomach growled traitorously, and she followed him warily, sinking into an armchair. “Thank you,” she murmured, pouring herself a cup and taking a fortifying sip, letting the warmth seep into her bones.

Malfoy only watched her, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, content to torture her with uncomfortable silence.

“Aren’t you having any?” she needled, hating how waspish she always sounded around him. “Or is this poisoned?”

Her joke seemed hollow, and he ignored her, which Hermione supposed she deserved.

“Another reading to pass the time, Granger?” His favored tarot deck had appeared between his palms, and he began to shuffle the heavy black cards, long fingers dextrous as he folded and cut.

“I don’t believe in that nonsense.”

He laughed. “Come now, surely you must admit that there is some truth to this magic? If you can accept everything in the wizarding world so easily, why not this?”

Brows furrowed, Hermione thought about a possible answer. The truth was, she couldn’t; she had always preferred the logical, the linear, and even in the course of her magical studies she hadn’t revised her opinion.

But over the past months, with Ben telling her story after fantastic story about Rey and her abilities, Hermione’s curiosity had been piqued. Their article had been well received, so much so that their editor had asked for it to become a series, and the monthly feature was at once something Hermione loved and loathed writing.

She loved working with Ben, and talking to Rey was indeed fascinating. Unfortunately, she was also forced to interact with Draco at nearly every meeting, no matter how she contrived to avoid his looming presence.

This evening was no exception, and as she waited for Ben to return home for their dinner meeting, Hermione acknowledged that her opinion, of so many things, was shifting...albeit gradually.

“How is Rey?” she wondered aloud.

“Out of town for a consultation,” Malfoy replied smoothly.

Hermione hummed, and was spared from a response when her phone chimed.

 _I think I’m stuck at the office_ , the text from Ben said. _Are you out in this?_

It wasn’t _that_ bad out, Hermione thought, her brow furrowed in confusion. She rose and crossed to the door, cracking it open to peer outside.

Her jaw dropped. The entire street was blanketed in snow, and the wind howled as it blew more of the powdery substance through the air in sheets so thick she could barely see the streetlamps.

She _felt_ , rather than heard, Malfoy behind her. “What in the name of Merlin—” he murmured, staring at the snow from above her head, his body pressed close behind hers so he could see.

Hermione shuddered and slammed the door shut. She sidled out from beneath him, running her hands through her hair to get the stray snowflakes out, thinking furiously.

“I’ve never seen a snow like this in London,” she said, pleased with how calm her voice sounded, though her thoughts, and heart, were racing.

“It’s not natural,” Malfoy said. “It almost seems…”

“Magical,” she finished grimly.

Hermione had just enough time to see his grey eyes flash silver when the lights went out and the foyer was plunged into darkness.

“Well, fuck,” Draco muttered, as Hermione rolled her eyes and produced her wand.

“ _Lumos_ ,” she murmured, glancing at Malfoy once he was illuminated from the softly glowing light at the tip of her wand. His skin gleamed dully, the normal haughty arch of his brow drawn down in consternation. 

“Something isn’t right out there,” he said darkly, and for once, Hermione was forced to agree with him.

“In here, either,” she assented, and they moved in silent accord back to the sitting room, where Hermione fought against the shivers that wracked her body after her short sojourn into the storm.

“I have a feeling we’re going to be stuck here until the snow lets up,” Malfoy said, his expression as dark as the corners of the room, which resisted the pull of Hermione’s artificial light.

“We may as well get comfortable.” Hermione pulled out her phone, responding to Ben’s text belatedly, letting him know where she was and that she wasn’t going anywhere.

“In that case, let’s go to my office. There’s a grate there for a fire.” Draco stood, crossing the room to the arched doorway he so often emerged from. Without waiting to see if she was following, he strode away, footsteps confident even in the dark, following a path well traveled.

Hermione hastened after him, climbing a narrow staircase and emerging into a room that had clearly been magically enlarged, if the external dimensions of the brownstone were anything to go by. The walls were of stone, but large windows flanked a massive fireplace, and she imagined that the light would be rather pleasant in sunnier conditions. Still, she peeked out one of the windows, shivering again when the snow outside seemed to whirl more aggressively with her regard.

Draco, clearly having observed her shudder, magicked up a roaring fire, adding plush pillows and pads to the floor with another sweep of his wand. With his desk and bookshelves against the wall opposite the fireplace, and the howling of the wind outside, it made for a cozy scene. Grateful, Hermione sank onto a cushion near the fire, holding her hands out to the roaring blaze.

She glanced over to where Malfoy was lounging beside her, looking much like he had every time she’d snuck into the Slytherin common room at school: lord of his domain.

But this time, he could see her; unlike her previous ventures, when she was cloaked in invisibility or the guise of someone else’s face, tonight he was large as life beside her, his panther-like body relaxed yet lethal. He gazed at her, and wordless understandings passed between them: something was afoot; something magical that had created this storm, this power outage, this contrived scenario in which they were trapped.

Hermione licked her lips slowly, watching as Draco’s eyes followed the motion, his silvery stare making her flush at his proximity.

Between the heat in Draco’s eyes and the fire blazing before them, Hermione couldn’t remember feeling cold moments ago. In fact, she couldn’t recall _ever_ feeling cold, not when she was faced with the searing intensity of those grey eyes tracing over her skin. Still, she shivered, though not from the cold, pressing her thighs together as she fought to keep her breaths even under Draco’s gaze.

For his part, Draco seemed far from unaffected, too: he’d yanked the tie around his throat loose, undoing a few buttons so the hollow between his collarbones peeked out to tease her. Hermione was seized with an intense desire to taste him there, to slide her tongue down his naked chest as she unbuttoned his black shirt.

She licked her lips again and tore her eyes away from his body, staring back at the fire crackling merrily in the grate, the soft cushions they rested on illuminated warmly by the light.

Draco waved his hand and a small tray appeared between them, a bottle of wine and two goblets resting upon it. “Wine?” he asked her, his voice solicitous yet somehow still taunting.

Hermione hated the domesticity of the scene—loathed it, she told herself sternly, even as her traitorous mind sought to imagine herself with someone every evening, sharing wine and conversation and intimate touches, even as her mind supplied Draco as a worthy candidate for a companion. His introspective nature would complement her inquisitive one nicely. He’d read quietly while she wrote or conducted interviews via telephone. They could conjure magical dinners when neither one was in the mood to cook.

Hastily, Hermione moved to uncork the wine, wandlessly poured herself a glass, and took a gulp. What was she thinking? It was one thing to fantasize about Draco naked...it was another thing entirely to fantasize about him casually occupying her life, fully clothed. 

When she chanced another glance at him, Draco was sipping his own wine, gazing broodily into the fire, and her eyes traced his profile hungrily. He was hotter than the blaze before them and Hermione couldn’t stand it anymore; she set her wine down and tore off her jumper, leaving her clad in a thin tank top and her skinny jeans.

Draco’s eyes tracked her movements, his molten silver gaze languid as it caressed her skin. Hermione exhaled shakily, flopping onto her back and kicking off her boots, picking up her wine and swirling it as she stared at the cavernous room’s ceiling.

“Do you miss Hogwarts?”

She turned her head toward him at the casual question, and just as an easy affirmative was on the tip of her tongue, she considered her answer.

 _Did_ she miss Hogwarts? A time of discovery, when things were easier and the biggest things at stake were generally her grades and social dramas?

“Not really,” she said slowly, swirling a fingertip around the rim of her goblet. “I loved it there, but I never really felt like I belonged. You know, being a Mudblood and all.” She glanced at him, the accusation in her reply evident, but her tone lacking its usual vitriol. She was tired—tired of grudges, of old aches, of the past.

She wanted to live in the present.

She wanted to be present for a _future._

And here beside her sat the man who’d painted her such a starkly happy picture of one, through his tarot cards and his odd magic and his haughty attitude.

“Do you miss it?” she asked.

“No,” he replied instantly. Hermione stared at him, pillowing her head on her palm as she propped herself up on one elbow until he elaborated. “Too much competition. It was exhausting, trying to be good enough for everyone...for my father, for Snape, for—”

Malfoy broke off suddenly, coughing slightly, and took a gulp of his wine. It was the most inelegant thing she’d ever seen him do.

Sensing weakness, Hermione sat up eagerly, refilling her goblet and allowing one strap of her camisole to slide down her shoulder. “For whom?” she prodded, her reporter’s senses tingling at the promise of a secret.

He sighed. “You, Granger.” Draco gazed at her, his eyes weary but warm, his posture resigned. “I was never as good as you.”

She scoffed. “Well, that was easy, since you weren’t on the side of _good_ at all.” She sipped her wine again before continuing. “If you had been, well, you’d have been right up there with the rest of us.” She arched a brow at him in challenge.

He snorted. “Maybe so. Either way, there was always one area of magic I did manage to best you in.”

“Quidditch doesn’t count,” she retorted crisply.

His laugh was full and rich, and for some reason, her belly tingled. “Well, in that case, there were two. Flying, and divination.”

“Oh, not that again, Malfoy. Divination is—”

“ _Horseshit;_ yes, I know, Granger.”

Her laugh was hollow. “Yes, yes it is.”

He sat up a little straighter. “But aren’t you convinced, even a little, after seeing Rey wield the magic? A _force,_ she calls it. Surely, if it’s something that transcends our world and this one, it’s got some truth to it.” 

Logic. Delineation. Those were the things Hermione prized, not intuition, gut feelings, _gestalt_... 

“After all, don’t all legends have a basis in fact, _Miss_ Granger?” At his repetition of her words from so many years ago, Draco’s teasing ignited something in her—not the usual annoyance she was accustomed to, but a fire more carnal. She had no idea he’d paid so much attention to her in their school days.

“Maybe,” she admitted. “Maybe so. But it doesn’t mean that it’s a reliable science. It’s an art, a craft, at best.” Hermione kept her voice firm to let him know she would brook no further argument.

“So you don’t think there’s a stagnation to your present? A wistfulness to your past?” Draco’s voice had become a seductive purr, and she wasn’t sure whether he was trying to sway her to him or to his argument. “A lover in your future?”

“I don’t think there’s any way to know those things for certain. Our lives are what we make of them, as far as our control extends. The rest is up to chance.”

“So you haven’t taken up stargazing, dear Granger? No crystal balls or palmistry can tempt you?”

“Absolutely not. I’m a reporter; I deal in facts. I leave the murky areas to the op-ed writers.” 

As they bantered, Hermione was distantly aware that the level of wine in the bottle was dwindling, her inhibitions lowering alongside the alcohol.

“What _does_ tempt you, Granger? Is there anything?”

His voice was soft, his eyes were guileless. He really wanted to know.

Hermione snapped her jaw shut against the words that threatened to tumble out: companionship, passion, _love._ Anything to keep the crushing loneliness at bay, a partner to hold her when she woke from nightmares of the war, a soul to crave hers for all time.

But she didn’t want to _tell_ him that. She didn’t want to give it willingly; not to this man who had been her enemy for so long.

Hermione wanted him to _take_ it.

“Aren’t you an accomplished Legilimens, Malfoy?” she teased quietly. “Can’t you just... _tell_?”

He was so close to her, somehow, the heat of his breath feathering across her cheek as they spoke, the fire reflecting in his lovely eyes. Draco gave a short laugh and she watched, hypnotized, as his lips drew back to reveal his teeth, and the image of them nipping at her skin flashed in her mind.

“Trust me, Granger, if there were a way for me to read your mind, I’d have taken advantage of it long ago.”

“You tried?” she wondered, looking away from him and at the ceiling.

“No.”

She wasn't sure what came over her. Perhaps it was the snowstorm, or the darkness, or the old stone walls of the room. It made her feel...reckless. Wanton.

She took a deep breath and let down the last of her mental defenses. “Try now.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, but Malfoy was gentle as he probed her mind, his thoughts slipping into hers like strands of silk in a Pensieve, the wine and the fire relaxing her as she let him tug at her desires.

She felt Draco see his form through her eyes, sexy in the warm glow that lit the room. The sleekness of his body, the way she wanted it to curve around hers. The grace of his long fingers, which she was desperate to feel against her skin. The hot, metallic glint of his eyes.

And older memories, of the way she’d grudgingly admired his form at Hogwarts, of his cocky athleticism on the Quidditch pitch, the way he’d gone from annoyingly cute to hauntingly sexy between years six and seven, the way she’d stopped looking at him as a one-dimensional foe and someone more _human._

Someone she found lurking in her thoughts far too often over the years.

And even now, as he edged closer, she let him see the way her mind drifted to him in the evenings, the way the memory of grey eyes tempted her whenever she talked with Ben about a story related to psychics and magic, the way Draco was never far from her fantasies.

“ _Granger_ ,” he cooed, delving further down that well-worn path in her mind, the one where she relieved her loneliness and pent-up frustration with thoughts of him, rough with her, over her and inside her.

“What ever _shall_ I do with this information?” he murmured, his voice liquid sin as it slithered closer to her, making her aware of his nearness even with her eyes still shut tight.

“Whatever you want,” she whispered.

“Say ‘ _please_ ,’ Granger.”

“Hermione,” she snapped. “And... _please_.” It was a whisper, her begging.

“ _Hermione_.” Her name in his voice was but a murmur against her lips when he finally placed his on hers, firm and sure and warm. She groaned, her mouth opening to his, his tongue hot and bold. 

“Draco,” he requested, into her mouth, and she nodded frantically, allowing her hands to link around his neck, arching her back so he pressed against her, over her.

“ _Draco_ ," she obliged, "touch me.” The need inside her was a hotter fire than the one that painted their bodies with glowing light. He wasted no time, unbuttoning her jeans and shoving them down to her thighs, pushing at her tank top until her breasts were exposed, which he palmed greedily as he pressed her down into the cushions.

Hermione pulled her mouth away from his long enough to yank his shirt open, buttons scattering as his gorgeous torso was revealed to her. She allowed her eyes to drift to his for the barest moment, but it was enough for him.

“Look at me, Hermione,” Draco commanded, making quick work of the rest of her clothing from where he knelt above her. “You can fight me all you want, but I want you to know who won here.”

“Shut up,” she seethed, pulling him back to her by his belt loops, their mouths fusing again as she worked busily to remove his trousers and pants, pushing them down his legs as he tugged at her undergarments. Like everything else between them, this was a battle, one without a winner just yet.

Then he was pressed against her, skin on gloriously bare skin, and Hermione felt warm and secure and so oddly _safe._ His hardness was a delicious contrast against the softness of her belly, and she arched into him, desperate for the opposing sensations that represented everything they were.

The golden Gryffindor and the silvery Slytherin.

The bright witch and the dark prince.

And Draco was still in her mind, his magic seductive and sly, knowing everything she wanted and felt and thought.

And for once, they were in agreement, and he slid his fingers to her center, groaning when he coated them in her wet heat, and he notched the head of his length inside her.

“Granger... _Hermione_ ,” he amended on a moan as he let his torso press against hers, the breath sighing out of Hermione as he slid home.

“ _Yesss_ ,” she hissed in pleasure, tilting her body to move against his more eagerly, moaning her approval when Draco gripped her thighs and spread her legs to pound into her more firmly, groaning when he slid one hand up to squeeze at her breasts as they bounced in time with his thrusts.

Time blurred for Hermione as she watched him above her, silhouetted against the fire, looking like temptation personified, his eyes glowing molten silver as he watched her carefully for signs of her pleasure.

When she began to writhe beneath him, breaths frantic and heat coiling in her belly, Draco groaned and fell to his elbows above her. He locked his gaze on hers, angling his hips to grind against her center while he thrust, slowly and evenly so Hermione could feel the pillows and cushions beneath them rubbing rhythmically against her back. Her skin tingled with sensation, Draco warm and slick above her, his cool grey eyes hot as they lingered on her nakedness; the fabric of the cushions rough above the softness of their padding.

And she was on fire beneath her skin, her body so warm and welcoming of his hot thrusts, the slick slide of their joining sending sparks flying up her spine and lush cries from her lips, wanton sounds she couldn’t imagine ever making and quite certain she’d never made before.

Why did it have to be so good, so perfect, for him to fuck her in front of the fire while the snow swirled outside? Why did he have to be so ruinously _good_ at this, so deliciously magical with his body, too?

But her pleasure overwhelmed her, and Hermione was lost to the power of their joining, body singing more loudly than her thoughts, hips working in tandem with Draco’s.

“Hermione,” he whispered, and pressed his brow to hers, and she came with a muffled cry into his mouth as he kissed her, his own orgasm following a moment later.

* * *

“This doesn’t change anything, you know,” Hermione murmured. Even as she grumbled the words, she felt the lie: she was nestled in Draco’s embrace, the pillows and cushions in disarray around them, their bodies still hot from the frenzy of their coupling. Her head rested on his shoulder, and his fingers traced lazy patterns over her arm where he held her.

“Mmmhmm,” Malfoy agreed, eyes closed, voice as calming as his presence.

And outside, the storm quieted, as though nature was as appeased by their union as their bodies were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your kudos and comments brighten my days and my inbox.
> 
> Next chapter, we see Rey's POV and glimpse into life with Ben Solo as a roommate.

**Author's Note:**

> Reylo + Dramione are also a OTP. Change my mind.


End file.
